Silence. Even Holden’s brows rise a fraction.
Graham doesn’t flinch. “You want preservation. I want sustainability. The goal should be finding where those meet.”
“It should be,” I agree, “but your proposal doesn’t show much interest in meeting in the middle.”
That’s when I see it – the first crack of frustration in his eyes. It’s … ridiculously attractive.Focus, Willow.
Atlanta breaks in with quiet enthusiasm. “I actually think there’s potential for blending both. Hearthstone’s original architecture is gorgeous. It deserves to anchor any new design.”
Graham nods, measured. “Which is why I kept the central structure intact.”
Intact doesn’t matter if everything surrounding it feels like an airport terminal.I push back. “And added an entire steel complex around it.”
“A necessary one.”
“A disruptive one.”
We hold each other’s stare, the room dissolving around us. Holden clears his throat. “Perhaps we can revisit the density requirements.”
Spencer leans back, crossing his arms. “Or scrap the design altogether.”
Graham ignores both and looks directly at me. It’s a challenge … and a warning. It’s a question he doesn’t want to ask out loud, but I hear it almost telepathically.Are you going to be the obstacle … or the partner?
I swallow hard. “We’ll need revisions before anything moves forward.”
He nods once, slow. “Then revisions you’ll have.”
But the way he says it makes me curious. It’s like a promise or a dare. Graham’s tone unsettles me far more than the debate ever could. Because for the first time since he walked into this town, I realize something feels very risky.
Graham Sinclair isn’t simply trying to change Hope Peak. He’s already changing something in me. He’s like the blue-eyed devil with his charisma and expensive cologne. Despite the fact that I will go to war with him … there’s a tiny part of me that would like to know what it would feel like if we could come to a truce. A truce or a surrender?
Chapter 4
Willow
By the time I leave City Hall, my pulse hasalmostreturned to normal – almost. Snow crunches beneath my boots as I cross Main Street, the wind carrying the rich scent of caramel and peppermint from Peak Sweets. Christmas music plays softly from a speaker tucked under the eaves. Something instrumental and festive. Exactly the kind of thing that would calm me any other day. But today? All I can hear is Graham Sinclair’s voice echoing in my head.
You want preservation. I want sustainability.
The man might be infuriating, but he’s not stupid. And he’s not heartless, either. That’s the problem. If he were a slick corporate nightmare with no regard for Hope Peak, I could fight him cleanly. But he listens. He watches. And he rattles me.
Peak Sweets’ door jingles the second I push it open, the warmth inside hitting my face like sugared velvet.
“Willow Grant,” Rosie calls from behind the counter, hands deep in a tray of peppermint bark. “You look like a woman in need of chocolate therapy.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She snorts. “I’ve seen polar bears lie with more conviction. Come here.”
I step closer and she hands me a piece of dark chocolate dipped in crushed peppermint. I bite into it, the sweetness grounding me in a way few things can.
Rosie studies me, eyes narrowing. “Your meeting went well, I take it?”
I choke slightly. “What makes you think that?”
“Because you get that specific grim expression when bureaucracy frustrates you.” She pauses, leans in. “But this grim expression is different. Sharper … more intense.”
I should walk out or laugh this off. Instead I groan softly. “Can we not?”
